Freefall
by Blame-It-On-The-Alcohol
Summary: Blaine Anderson stands on a ledge. Saving the ones he loves will lead him to discover a web of murder, deceit and psychosis leading back fifteen years. Sequel to If Only I Could Read His Mind. Rated T for dark themes, violence and romance.
1. Ledge

**Hi, readers! Whether or not you have read the prequel to this, If Only I Could Read His Mind, I hope you will enjoy this. (I would recommend reading If Only I Could Read His Mind, but it's not essential. It will give you a greater understanding about what happens in this story.)**

**Now, the prequel to this was a love story that I greatly enjoyed writing. However, my passion is thriller, so this has romance, thriller and crime in it. It's called Freefall. This story has lots of excerpts from the pasts of each of the characters, but apart from those excerpts, it is set either two or seven years after Kurt and Blaine first found each other. **

**Here's the full description:**

"**Blaine Anderson stands on a ledge. Saving the ones he loves will lead him to discover a web of murder, deceit and psychosis leading back fifteen years, and finding who caused it will take him much closer to home than he realises. An exciting and gripping tale with action, romance and crime aspects. Rated T for dark themes, moderate romance and violence." **

**I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it!**

**Karah/Biota xxx**

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><p><strong><strong>**Prologue: Ledge**

I'm standing on a windowsill, staring at the skyline. One step, Blaine. That's all you need to take. Your life's already over, so why not take that step?

The face of the man I love flickers across my vision. He's dead, my fault. I'm so sorry. Everyone who I've hurt, I'm so sorry. Sorry. Such a meaningless word. It didn't save my life, or the lives of anyone I as good as killed.

Hell beckons to me. Can I do it?

I'm about to take that step, when my phone rings. I'm tempted to smash it, but I stop when I see the caller's name.

A ghost from my shattered past.

"Bailey?"

Bailey-or maybe her kidnapper-doesn't speak for hours. Or maybe a split second. I don't care about time any more.

Then, a single word.

"Run."

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><p><strong>I hope you enjoy the rest of my story, and try not to read too far into the prologue at the moment; it will all make sense later on. (Sorry about the length, super-short prologues are my style.)<strong>


	2. Memories

**Hello my amazing readers! :)**

**Now, this is the romantic chapter. Enjoy it while you can, because the angsty stuff will start next chapter. There's a *kind of* sex scene, but it's not graphic because this is T-Rated people :) If you want graphic stuff, go target the M-Rated slash fics that may burn out your eyeballs. :D**

**Now, those of you who have read the notes on the finale of the prequel to this; they're not entirely accurate. I'm not saying how, but I've got a few O/Cs in this one.**

**Hope you like it!**

**Karah/Biota xxx**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Memories (Blaine's POV)<strong>

"Lima is kinda beautiful when the sun bothers to show up, isn't it? Wish it visited more." Kurt sighed contentedly and leaned back on the grass as I smiled in agreement. This was the kind of day that looked like a watercolour painting; sun blindingly bright in the cornflower-blue sky; flowers of all different colours sunbathing on the emerald grass; even the red ants had decided to piss off and go bite someone else today. Of course, if I wanted to contradict my analogy, I would probably have said that any famous painter wouldn't have painted two gay teenage boys lying down together in the picture for fear of a few bombs being posted through their letterbox, but I was too blissed out to care.

It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon, exactly two years to the day that my eyes first met those ocean-coloured eyes in Dalton Academy's main hall, before we both moved to McKinley High. Two years since the day I fell in love. And somehow, we'd made it, unlike so many other teenage couples with blink-and-you'll-miss-it 'relationships'. Sure, we had some fights, but we always knew that we were going to be different.

"Do you remember the day we met, Kurt?"

Kurt playfully punched me on the shoulder. "Of course I do, idiot! You're the one with the memory like a goldfish with amnesia! How could I ever forget the best day of my life?" I could see him pondering for a moment. "Well, actually, a few other days probably beat it, but it's still definitely up there."

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><p><em>Kurt Hummel nervously climbed down the spiral staircase, occasionally sneaking glimpses at a map scrawled on his porcelain-white hand. OK, seriously? McKinley was fairly big, but Dalton was like Buckingham Palace, both in size and in class. He hastily straightened his jacket and unsuccessfully tried to disguise the lack of a Dalton crest on it.<em>

_Blaine Anderson was relaxed and happy. The Dalton Academy Warblers-of which he was the lead singer-were about to throw an impromptu performance in the dining hall, and Blaine couldn't relate to the nervous chattering of the others. How could they possibly be anxious? Performing was the least scary thing in the world; it came so naturally to Blaine._

_Kurt breathed a sigh of relief. He'd managed to find the dining hall in time after several tries, just in time for the impromptu performance. Now he was going to see what the New Direction's rivals were like. He descended a few more steps, and then stopped so rapidly he had to grab the banister for balance._

_Blaine was strolling through the corridor when he almost skidded to a halt._

_Kurt's breath caught in his throat. Okay, that guy was gorgeous. A tousled mop of black curls; slightly tanned skin; hazel eyes with slight gold flecks. And that heart-melting smile? Okay, breathe, Kurt, breathe…_

_Blaine studied the porcelain boy in front of him. Something about him had caught his eye-maybe his flawless skin and hair, his unique blue-green-grey eyes, or perhaps his sexy-looking, flustered expression…but something had struck Blaine speechless. He found himself breaking out into a smile._

_Hazel eyes met ocean eyes…_

_And they both knew._

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><p>"You call that a great memory? That was the start of weeks and weeks of agonising pain for me! I actually ended up resorting to that 'he loves me, he loves me not' thing with flower petals…Wes and David still cry laughing when they remember that…" But I still can't help cracking into a grin, and Kurt looks relieved.<p>

"OK, that was a good memory…but I have one that beats it tenfold." Kurt cocked his head to one side and gave me that adorable, questioning look. Without warning, my lips were on his. It took what felt like hours to prise myself away from those soft lips of Kurt's. When I pulled away, it dawned on him. "Oh…now I know what you meant!" I laughed and kissed him quickly again. For about the first few months of us dating, (not to mention for the two years afterwards) kissing was frequent and blissful, but the first one is still the one that sticks in my mind.

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><p><em>Their dreams of a Regionals victory were wrecked. They'd arranged the song to do it as a duet and they couldn't change it back now, they'd have to change all the accompaniments, the timing…it would take 5 weeks, not 5 minutes. Blaine gave an anguished, strangled sound and threw another book across the room from his bag of sheet music. <em>

"_Hiya."_

_Blaine froze, another book still resting in his hand. He could hardly dare to rotate his head._

"_Kurt?"_

_The boy with the snowy complexion and ocean eyes inclined his head and smiled. "I think we'd better practice, we've only got five minutes. So, what's the arrangement of the song?" His curious, nervous, yet excited-looking face was possibly the most adorable and sexy thing Blaine Anderson had ever seen. Why the hell had he made that comment about the gas-pain expressions Kurt was pulling during Animal? This, natural Kurt, was seriously the most achingly sexy human being that Blaine had ever laid his eyes on. He was actually mentally undressing his best friend. He blushed bright pink._

_No. They weren't best friends. Or at least, not for much longer._

"_Umm, here's the music book to show you the arrangement." In a move that was one-third accidental, one-third fate and one-third deliberate, Blaine withdrew the only book that mattered from his bag and silently handed it to Kurt. _

_Time didn't exist any more when Kurt saw what he knew he would see on the cover. _

"_Kurt Elizabeth Hummel-My Journal."_

_Instinctively, Kurt reached into his pocket and passed Blaine a book. Blaine didn't bother to look at what was on the cover. He already knew. And now his heart was beating at the rate of a jet engine on overdrive. Kurt looked soft and adorable and so…kissable?_

_Somehow, they had gravitated towards each other. They were barely five inches apart now, and Blaine could hear Kurt's heartbeat, through the silence, quicken as his fingers brushed against the back of Kurt's hand. They both looked up at the same time. Kurt was about to turn away in embarrassment when he saw the look in Blaine's eyes. It was a look full of happiness, love-and lust._

"_Did you really mean what you said in your journal?" Kurt's voice was beautifully melodic, with that hint of nervousness about the answer Blaine would give._

_Blaine answered in the way he'd wanted to for so long. _

_He leaned in slowly so that his light olive forehead was gently touching Kurt's snow-white one, and felt Kurt's slight shiver. He took a moment to comprehend what was about to happen…_

_And captured Kurt's lips and soul with his own._

_It started off as a gentle kiss, full of love and pure relief that they were finally together in every sense of the word. But as they both came to terms that they were both kissing the person they had wanted to for so long, the kiss deepened and a fiery passion came through. Kurt's tongue grazed Blaine's bottom lip and Blaine let out an involuntary moan. He slipped his tongue into Kurt's mouth and Kurt enthusiastically responded, bringing them both down onto the piano stool and causing the piano to boom out a clash of notes, but Kurt and Blaine had never cared less. Kurt's hands were running through Blaine's hair and Blaine's arm snaked around Kurt's waist and it felt…perfect. They were kissing deeply and passionately, their legs feverishly twining together, when the door flew open._

_Blaine looked sideways to see that Wes and David were grinning ear-to-ear. Blaine reluctantly pulled away from Kurt and rested his forehead against Kurt's. "Kurt, that was my way of saying-yes. I meant every word."  
><em>

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><p>"That was a very good first kiss, wasn't it? Although it's not like it matters-we've had enough practice since then…" I smiled at Kurt, who was clearly thinking about something. Then, Kurt blushed so deeply he looked like he had sunburn. "I-I've just thought of another memory, but I don't want to mention it! Oh, crap, I've just gone and mentioned it now. Can we change the subject?" He looked so embarrassed, it was endearing.<p>

"What's the memory, Kurt?" I pestered him for ages until he eventually subsided and whispered it in my ear. "Kurt, you're still embarrassed about saying that word? We've had sex enough times-" "SHUT UP, BLAINE!" Kurt had now gone the colour of a ripe tomato and buried his face in my shoulder. I jokingly said "I take it you're not up for anything tonight, then?" He tried to punch me in the stomach, which resulted in a very fun play-fight, which ended in a rather suggestive position, which Kurt realised and sheepishly rolled away. "You just can't keep your hands off me, can you? And we are reminiscing about that night, Kurt, whether you like it or not, because that is definitely up in my top five memories."

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><p><strong>(Side note: I am currently about the same colour as Kurt was then, trying to think of what to write. Damn you, readers. Remember, I go through all of this for you. I CAN'T DO SEXY SCENES! But I'll try, and it's your own fault if it's crap. :))<strong>

_The boys were idly attempting to do homework, sprawled out under a tree in Blaine's massive garden. After about half an hour, they mutually agreed they weren't going to get any work done, and lazily lay down under the boughs of a massive oak tree. _

_Kurt was reading a book, but could see Blaine staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He attempted to concentrate on the book, but Blaine was making it more and more difficult, nibbling on Kurt's earlobe and whispering in his ear. When Blaine pulled a puppy-dog face, Kurt giggled. "Okay, fine, you win, sod the book, you've got me to yourself now." _

_The book had barely hit the ground when Blaine crashed his lips to Kurt's. Kurt almost felt himself burning with the heat of that kiss, so much more than any kisses before. Normally their kisses were short, sweet, and peaceful. This was a fiery, passionate kiss that seemed to go on forever. Subconsciously, Kurt found himself biting Blaine's lip. Blaine slipped his tongue into Kurt's mouth and Kurt let out a tiny moan, then he pulled away sharply. _

"_What's wrong?" Blaine's expression had changed to one of concern. "Kurt, if you're not comfortable…"_

_He let out a little yip of surprise as Kurt kissed Blaine with as much heat as before. When, after an age, he pulled away, he had a flustered grin. "I was scared. But I'm not any more." Then he glanced down and gave a squeal. "Oh my god, that's so embarrassing…" He blushed bright red and wished he would sink into the earth and stay there for a very long time._

_But Blaine's expression stopped his embarrassment. He'd expected a look of pity, maybe even slight revulsion. After all, he wasn't sexy in the slightest, at least not compared to Blaine. But Blaine's look was one that could only be described as…pure lust._

_Hmm, maybe he was a bit sexy._

_He tentatively tried kissing Blaine again, and Blaine immediately responded enthusiastically and started kissing Kurt's neck. Kurt let out a little moan, but this time didn't pull back. Blaine slowly unbuttoned Kurt's shirt and then unbuttoned his own, and Kurt risked a glance. Blaine's skin was smooth and pretty much perfect, with toned muscles, just how he'd thought it would be...and now feelings were stirring in him that he'd done his level best to always keep firmly locked down._

_ Why the hell had he done that, again?_

_Blaine looked up at Kurt. "Kurt, are you sure you're okay? If you're not, we can just forget this…"_

_Kurt shut Blaine up with a kiss, smiled and said, "Trust me, Blaine, I'm way, way more than okay."_

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><p><em>When they'd finished, Kurt risked a glance at Blaine's face. His skin was slightly flushed, and he looked shocked, but definitely happy. He'd kind of forgotten that this was Blaine's first as well.<em>

_Blaine saw Kurt's expression, smiled reassuringly and kissed Kurt. "Kurt, are you all right? Because I definitely am." Kurt breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank god. Yes, I'm good. Do you…uh…want to…get pizza or something?" He saw Blaine's incredulous expression, and they both burst out laughing._

_Kurt smiled. He felt comfortable around Blaine, and thankfully, he didn't think they'd lost the friend part of their relationship after…that. He felt relieved. Blaine stood up and helped Kurt up, but froze. Blaine's mother was coming out into the garden! _

"_Oh, shit! Run! I'm not ready to die yet!"_

Side note: Whew, thank god that's over. Sorry I cut out the juicy bit, but I have to maintain a T rating or I'll never be able to look my parents in the eye again, since they read my fics. Hi, daddy and mommy…and my little sister Helen reads them too…Plus, I'm not sure my frayed nerves could stand it.

EDIT: My mom read it. She was still mad, so it's been slightly toned down. Sorry readers!

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><p>"You are officially on the list, Blaine, for making me relive that memory. I still don't know how much your mother saw, and I really, really never want to know." Kurt gazed into the sky, where the sun had just started to set, turning the sky into a canvas of purples, oranges and pinks. "Ah, you know I love you really, Blaine. You're just such a pain in the neck!" Kurt giggled adorably and rested his head on my shoulder.<p>

"I love you too, Kurt, and just to clarify, you can be just as irritating as me. Especially with that moisturising routine! Two hours every freaking morning…" I stopped when I saw the murderous look on Kurt's face and figured I didn't quite want to die yet. "Speaking of the three little words, what about that memory?"

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><p>"<em>I can't BELIEVE you!" Kurt slapped Blaine in the face. Blaine staggered back, wincing. Sure, he knew that Kurt's bitch-slaps were legendary in their pain, but somehow being slapped in the first place by the boy he loved hurt a heck of a lot more.<em>

"_How could you tell 'Cedes that I've entered for NYU? You know full well that I didn't want to tell her because she's not going to uni! Now she's pissed at me and won't speak to me and it's ALL YOUR FAULT!" Blaine ducked instinctively when Kurt launched another explosive bitch-slap. _

"_Kurt, I'm so sorry, it honestly just slipped out-"_

"_I'm going to my dad's. I want to be alone for a while, Blaine. I'm just so mad that you would be so inconsiderate! Do you not care about my feelings? Why didn't you tell me you'd done it before 'Cedes came storming up to me?"_

"_Kurt, WAIT!" Blaine yelled as Kurt laid his hand on the doorknob. "You can't go! I love you way too much to let you go over something as stupid as this! I thought we were worth more than that."_

_Kurt had frozen. He slowly turned around, a softer look in his eyes, a mixture of shock and disbelief. "What did you just say? After the 'you can't go' bit?"_

_Blaine was scared he might have freaked Kurt out. "Umm…nothing…"_

"_Was it really nothing? Because I thought you said you loved me. And if you had, I was going to say I love you too." All traces of anger gone, Kurt gave a tiny smile. "I thought you knew that."_

"_I guess I always did, but we never really got round to saying it, did we?" Kurt met Blaine's lips with a contented sigh. The kiss was short, sweet and lovely. "Okay, Blaine, I guess I overreacted," Kurt smiled. Blaine cracked a smile. "Great! Now I know how to get out of you being mad at me now!" As soon as he said it, he gulped._

_SLAP._

"_I'm sorry! I won't make jokes any more! Ever! I promise!"_

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><p>"Oh crap, is it seven already? Sorry, honey, I've got to go, I've got a history final tomorrow and I really need to cram for it. Love you," Blaine quickly kissed Kurt, and then sprinted off into the house. Kurt watched Blaine go, then hurriedly took out his phone and dialled Wes. He still didn't want Blaine to know.<p>

"Kurt! I've been waiting for your call! I researched the things you asked me to, and I've got a lead on your case. You need to come round and look at it." Wes stopped for a second. "So, how's your day been? Unless you've been incessantly romping with your boyfriend, in which case I'd rather I didn't know."

Kurt felt sad at the slight bitterness in Wes' otherwise jokey tone. Wes and David had moved to a school called Simford High the last year, and the incessant bullying had been the downfall of their relationship. They'd broken up and found they couldn't just go back to being best friends, so they tended to avoid each other now.

"I've been fine, thanks, Wes. I'll come over and look at what you've found."

"I hope it's a good lead, Kurt. God knows you've waited long enough to find out what happened."

Wes hung up. Kurt gathered his things and snuck out of the back gate, all the while thinking. Maybe this would be the day he got some answers about what happened to her.

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><p><strong>So, hope you liked the chapter, because you're going to have to fill up on happy-go-lucky now if you want to get through the angst I have in store for you. :) I'll have the next chapter up soon.<strong>

**Karah/Biota xxx**


	3. Nightmare

**I'm going to camp for a couple weeks soon, so I decided I'll post a couple of chapters quite close together to make up for when I'm gone. :) This chapter is kind of short compared to the last one but the content makes up for it.**

**Alright, let the angst begin…**

**Karah/Biota xxx**

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Ambush<strong>

"Are you sure she said a _raven _tattoo? That's not exactly a massive tough-guy symbol, is it? She could have said something more common, like a skull tattoo."

"Positive. David's fluent in Portuguese, and I checked it on Google Translate to make sure. Google Translate never lies, Kurt."

When Wes finished talking, he saw something come over Kurt. A new spark in his eyes, a glow lighting him up from inside. "So, we have a witness who said they saw a guy with silver hair and a raven tattoo leaving the place. There can't be that many people in Lima fitting that description. Wes, we might actually have found the bastard." His expression was part elation and part grim determination. "I'll get back to you and David tomorrow, Burt might start asking questions if I stay out any longer."

Wes looked puzzled. "Surely Burt would want you to do this?"

"He doesn't want me to get hurt." A flicker of guilt flashed across Kurt's face, but it disappeared quickly. "I'll call you tomorrow, Wes."

"Bye, diva." Wes turned back to his laptop in his small apartment overlooking Westerville, Ohio, and grinned in anticipation. Maybe they would be able to put her to rest after all these years.

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><p>Kurt tiredly chucked his jacket over the banister, and called out to Burt, "Hey dad, I'm going to bed, sorry I was out late." No answer. Kurt listened intently and could hear Burt's quiet snores through the bedroom door. He pushed open his bedroom door and went inside.<p>

Kurt's bedroom was typical for him. Black-and-white, with a contemporary, arty style and a wardrobe that took up the entire room. But Kurt had little time to admire his gift for interior design, and his tiredness had been replaced by adrenaline and fear. Ice-cold fear.

A man was standing silently next to the bed, pointing a gun straight at Kurt. His jacket had slumped over his shoulder, revealing a wing in jet-black ink.

Kurt felt his heart quicken and his mouth go dry. Better act fast. Kurt had been taking tae kwon do lessons for three years; this was the time to show off his skills-or die. He adopted a fierce-looking fighting position; ready to strike-but the strike never came. The colors started to blur, and Kurt couldn't explain it until he saw the now-empty syringe being ripped out of his arm.

The man with the raven tattoo smiled. And for the second before he blacked out, Kurt thought he recognized him.

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><p>Nine o'clock the next morning, Blaine sleepily awoke, with an immediate sense that something wasn't right. Now, Blaine had never considered himself incredibly intuitive, but his mind was screaming at him, something terrible has just happened. He decided to ignore it and drove off to the Lima Bean coffee shop to wait for Kurt.<p>

Strange. Kurt was normally so punctual. When Kurt had been ten minutes late, Blaine was actually amused-Kurt was probably stuck in the two hours of hair and makeup he had each and every morning. When Kurt had been a half hour late, Blaine had started to get annoyed.

Now, Kurt was ninety minutes late, and onlookers were giving him pitying glances, convinced he'd gotten stood up. The mocha had gone stone cold. And Blaine was fuming. He loved Kurt to bits, but enough was enough. He dialled the number, almost breaking the buttons with the force of which he pressed them.

"This is Kurt Hummel's answerphone. You must have caught me at a bad time, please leave a message."

Strange. He had never seen Kurt one day without his phone on. It must have about a fifty year battery life to keep up with Kurt's constant texting. Then again, the texts were usually between Kurt and him.

"Kurt, I know your moisturising routine is important, but this is ridiculous. I've been at the coffee house for an hour and a half! Your skin is perfect, just bloody leave it before I raid your bathroom and steal your foundation. Yes, I will stoop that low. Love you. Bye."

"Kurt, seriously? It's been two hours! My mocha is stone cold! Did you forget or something? Love you, bye."

"Kurt, answer me. It's been almost three hours."

"Kurt, I'm coming over. Love you."

Paralyzing fear had starting to creep up on Blaine. This was completely out of the ordinary. Kurt was the most considerate and least forgetful guy he'd ever met in his life. But he quickly dismissed his fears as paranoia, and turned into the street where Kurt, Finn, Carole and Burt Hummel-Hudson lived.

That's when the fear really took hold.

Police tape enclosed the entire street. He could see various policemen outside Kurt's house. Three figures were outside who he was sure were Kurt's family. Too desperate to think of a rational plan to get in, Blaine tore the police tape in half and started sprinting towards the three figures.

No. No. NO. This cannot be happening. His thoughts were swirling around in his head, becoming more and more horrific as he ran.

A guard near the tape immediately clocked Blaine and started pursuing him, but Blaine was twenty years younger and clearly in a lot better shape than the beer-bellied officer, who was red and sweating already with the exertion. He could see the figures properly now-Carole, who had obviously been crying, curled up with Burt, who had a glazed, dead look in his eyes. With a jolt he saw that it was the exact same way he and Kurt would curl up under the sunshine in Blaine's garden under the massive oak tree. Finn was pacing up and down the garden.

"FINN!"

Blaine launched himself at the taller boy with such force that he bowled them both over. He examined Finn's face. Finn looked tired, gaunt and in a state of shock.

"What's happened? Where's Kurt? Is he okay?"

Finn looked into Blaine's eyes and then dropped his gaze. "Blaine? I'm surprised they haven't told you. Kurt…he's…"

God, don't let him be dead. Don't let him have been killed. Blaine could feel himself shutting down at the mere thought.

Finn seemed to read Blaine's mind. "No, Blaine, Kurt's not dead."

The relief that washed over Blaine was killed with Finn's next sentences. "Blaine, someone snuck into Kurt's room last night…and kidnapped him. We don't know where he is, or who got him, or why, or even if he's still alive."

It didn't register for a few seconds, but they felt like hours. When the over-exerted police officer roughly grabbed Blaine, he didn't even put up any resistance as he was dragged away. It was only just before they bundled him into the car that it registered. And Blaine's soul shattered.

He didn't stop screaming until he collapsed into a nightmare-filled sleep.

But what nightmare could be worse than the one that waited for him when he woke up?

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><p><strong>And the story begins.<strong>


	4. Darkness

**Now, we take a leap forward into the future. Let's see what's happened.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Darkness<strong>

_Five Years Later_

Richard Dorian rested his elbows on the thick, pine desk in front of him, directing his piggy, mud-brown eyes at the ceiling and away from the shattered soul seated opposite him. Dorian took a deep breath and attempted to meet the man's eyes, and felt a jolt of pain shudder through him. This man was barely more than skin, bones and tears, and his eyes were like a dying animal's-he clearly knew why he was here. Quickly looking away, Dorian spoke in a detached, monotonous voice.

"Mr. Anderson, I must inform you that human remains were found two weeks ago in Ardent Forest, Pennsylvania. We have tested the remains, and I regret to say that we have proved beyond all reasonable doubt that they are the remains of one Kurt Hummel. His father directed me to you as soon as I told him. We will need to question you soon, but for now you may go home. I am very sorry, sir."

The wasted soul raised his head and bored his eyes into Dorian's. Blaine Anderson was twenty-three years old, but years of chronic insomnia, stress and pain made him look double his age. Blaine had an expression of pure hate. How could this police officer be able to deliver the news that would kill Blaine, in a voice as if he was reciting a shopping list?

Blaine got up, not sure how long his legs would hold him. "Thank you, Mr. Dorian, for telling me." He didn't mean a word of it, and Dorian knew full well.

Dorian didn't reply. Blaine took it as his cue to leave.

There was nobody outside the police station; the sky was as black as his life. Wordlessly, Blaine half-walked, half-dragged himself down the stairs, slumped against a wall, went silent for a moment. Then he screamed and screamed until his throat was raw. But no tears would form. And for that, he hated himself. He'd cried himself to sleep for months after Kurt disappeared, then after the only other person he was certain he loved disappeared too. Now, his tears were all gone.

He stared at the sky. "I'm so sorry."

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><p>Wesley Montgomery was sprinting down the corridor when he glimpsed Blaine through the window. He stopped dead and looked through the window. Blaine looked broken. Wesley sat on the windowsill and began to cry softly. He already knew about Kurt, but only now had it hit him that his favourite diva had gone.<p>

There was no doubt in Wes' mind that Andrew Powell was the one who was responsible. Blaine's psychotic ex from back in high school. He'd left six months after they broke up, still nursing a grudge, and it was rumoured that he'd been moved because he had mental problems and Dalton wouldn't keep him. He'd waited a year and a half to exact his revenge. With a jolt, Wes realised that apart from the attacker, he'd been the last person to actually see and talk to Kurt.

Shaken, he watched his friend walk out of the door, taking stiff, robotic, detached steps. He knew he would hear the screams. It was what he heard when they ended that he didn't expect.

He listened to the faint ring of the phone through the glass. Dorian trudged over to the telephone and snatched it up. Then, unmistakably;

"Yes, he bought it, we've got time," he snapped. "Yes, I'm sure, I can hear his screams from here, it's giving me a bloody migraine. I just told this kid his boyfriend died, why would he suspect anything different?"

Wes didn't realise that he'd stopped breathing until he was brought back to earth by the sound of Dorian's heavy footsteps making their way towards the door. If he stayed where he was, Dorian would know he'd been eavesdropping. At best, if what he'd heard had been a mistake, he would get a massive bollocking from Dorian. If what he'd heard _had _been a mistake.

But somehow, he knew that he'd heard every word perfectly. And if that was the case, he could be on the end of a bullet before he knew it.

Heart pounding, Wes darted away just as Dorian shoved the door open and grumpily thundered down the steps, ignoring the collapsed Blaine heartlessly.

Oh. My. Freaking. God. He'd just heard Dorian basically saying he'd lied to Blaine.

And if he'd lied to Blaine, Kurt was still alive, and they were hiding something. Maybe Dorian was working with Andrew.

Wes ripped his phone out of his pocket and dialled David. He didn't particularly want to see him, but David was the best lock-picker in Ohio, and tonight, they were going undercover.

* * *

><p><em>She knew this room. She knew this room too well. It had been her home for…a long time. Too long. Way too long. With its dull grey walls, its sparse furniture, its iron-barred doors and windows, and the bed with the ropes that chafed her wrists and abdomen. Her legs were free because when her legs and arms had been secured she'd gotten deep-vein thrombosis. Now each day, he would release her leg ropes for a couple of hours so she could stretch them.<em>

_She was about to give a quick tug at her ropes before she saw him. Him, with the grey eyes and the too-full lips and the leering smile. Him, with the knife and the icy whisper. Him, who had brought her here. He was holding a bowl of some kind of stew and holding out the spoon to her. She wanted to bite his fingers off._

_God, she hated him._

_But she was too hungry to fight now. She'd fight later, though. Because she knew what he liked to do after dinner._

_She ravenously lunged for the spoon, but her ropes brought her down into a horizontal position on the iron bed. Her gold-brown hair was caught under her, now. It annoyed her, but she'd never ask him to move it for her. If she let him touch any part of her, it gave him…ideas._

"_Hush." He lowered the spoon to her lips. Avoiding his weird, childish, misty grey eyes with the huge pupils that made her feel uncomfortable, she swallowed the stew. It was good, she grudgingly admitted. Then again, she was hungry enough to eat cardboard._

_When she'd finished, she knew what was coming. He didn't disappoint her expectations._

"_So, Kitty, I've given you food. Wouldn't you like to thank me? Wouldn't you like to thank me, Kitty?" His eyes had sort of…glazed over._

"_How do you want me to thank you?" She said through gritted teeth. If she hadn't said anything, he would have come closer, and she wanted him as far away from her as possible._

"_Just a kiss, Kitty. Would you give me that? You are so pretty, after all…"_

_A kiss. That was the worst he would ask for. She should probably be grateful that he wasn't some rapist sicko, but somehow his instability and childlike behaviour scared her just as much. She couldn't help but feel like he could snap at any time, and kill her._

_Wait a second._

_He had a knife in his hand. He'd kept her tied up for two years. And he wanted her to kiss him, and be grateful?_

_Screw him. Bastard. _

"_Come on, Kitty…"_

_Something snapped. "I'm not Kitty." It was almost a whisper at first._

"_What?" The man who called himself Andrew looked like a confused child._

"_I am not Kitty."_

"_Don't be silly, Kitty…" he giggled._

_That was IT. "I'M NOT KITTY!" She launched her foot up with all the energy she could muster, and kicked him in the balls. _

_He seemed to snap out of his childish persona immediately. He stared at her with fear in his misty-grey eyes-she recalled they were much clearer when she was taken, an absurd thing to be thinking now-and slapped her cheek. She stifled a gasp of pain and matched his now hate-filled gaze with a steely glare of her own._

_Andrew staggered to the opposite wall, and started crying. He wailed like a baby for hours and hours. The girl began working, slowly tugging on the rope on her left wrist, which had always been slightly loose. It was the only thing that kept her sane after two years' imprisonment. Two years. She glanced at the calendar on the other side of the room, at the first uncrossed date that was today. _

_As if snapping out of a trance, Andrew sat up sharply and stared at her. She quickly dropped the rope, praying that he hadn't seen anything. Thank god, he hadn't. He dropped straight back into his slump again._

_A cockroach crawled across her forehead as she stared at the cracked ceiling._

"_Happy eighteenth birthday to me," she muttered bitterly._

* * *

><p><strong>Hmm. Questions, questions. Who is the girl? Is Kurt really dead? Is this 'Andrew' the same Andrew that Wes mentioned? How do the pieces fit together?<strong>

**Each chapter is going to provide a piece of the puzzle. It's up to you to figure out how they all fit together. **

**Karah/Biota x**


	5. Deceit

**Hi! This is the last chapter of Freefall before I head off to camp for 2 weeks. Unfortunately, there are no computers in camp. Nor are there comfortable beds, working toilets, or decent food. Wait, why the heck am I going again? Oh, I remember, so I can put off doing my summer homework for another 2 weeks. :D**

**This is quite short, but they'll be a lot longer from now on.**

**Karah/Biota x**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: Deceit<strong>

"This is David's answering machine. I'm either out or aliens have abducted me. If I'm out, please leave a message. If I've been abducted by aliens, why the hell are you calling me, moron? Call the fucking police!"

Wes laughed out loud at that last bit. He'd dared David to put that on his answering machine and they'd never gotten round to taking it off. He imagined it was quite awkward if his sweet, senile grandma called his answering machine. Wes sighed in spite of himself. Just another memory that felt like a knife in his back.

"David? Wesley-I mean Wes-here. Listen, I'm onto something big. I mean, really big. Meet me down at the bus stop outside the station at seven thirty. Bring your lock gun and stun gun. It's about Kurt, but I won't say any more. Bye."

Wes hung up and silently prayed that David's grief over their favourite diva would outrank how awkward things might be between them.

* * *

><p>He needn't have worried. David was already at the bus stop when he arrived, looking worried and confused, with the bulge of a taser visible beneath his jacket.<p>

"What is it, Wes? This had better not be some trick." David instantly adopted a hostile look. It was how he coped, Wes reasoned, but it still felt like someone had punched him. He would've been happy to be friends again after they broke up but David was just too hurt. He shook his head and eliminated all thoughts of their complicated relationship from his head-they weren't important right now.

"I think Kurt's still alive and Dorian's covering up his death for some reason. But we need proof, so we're going to have to break into Dorian's office. There'll be guards, so we'll need these balaclavas-" Wes thrust a balaclava into David's face- "and the stun guns will probably come in handy too."

Wes held his breath at the blank look on David's face. They'd grown up from being mischievous teenagers. He could say it was too dangerous, or the risks were too high, or Wes was getting worked up over nothing. He might even tell Dorian. Shit, he shouldn't have told David to come…

Then, fortunately, the expression on David's face changed into the one Wes had seen so many times before. The half-smile was unremarkable, but it was the spark in David's eyes. The spark he'd seen before they set off the stink bombs in their evil English teacher's car. The spark that glowed in David's eyes when Benjamin Alright had opened his locker and thousands of tiny spiders had spewed out. The spark that never left his eyes when they were on an escapade.

The spark of _fun._

"Well, what are we standing here for?" David grinned. "Let's go break some laws!"

* * *

><p>Taking out the guards was easy. Wes relished the gagging sound a particularly vindictive, huge guard made as the taser hit his skin before he passed out. What would be hard was getting the information they needed before the guards woke up and phoned Dorian. If Dorian turned out not to be crooked, they'd be facing jail time for B&amp;E and assault. If he was crooked, then they could end up with a hell of a lot more, provided Dorian didn't send one of his buddies around to their flats with a gun tucked into his jacket.<p>

David kept guard while Wes frantically typed on the computer, searching the words 'Kurt Hummel' then 'Kurt' then 'Hummel', then with every typo he could think of. There was nothing in his email or documents. He half thought about cutting his losses and running when he spotted a tiny symbol in the corner. He clicked it and a second email account popped up, requiring a password.

"Jackpot," he whispered. He racked his brains to think of what Dorian would use for a password. Dorian was a lot smarter than he looked, so he wouldn't use something like 1234 or 'password'. Then, he faintly remembered hearing a snippet of a conversation a few weeks earlier, with Dorian jovially saying to a co-worker, "My password's easy-I just have to enter it wrongly and it gives me it straight away!"

Bingo. Wes typed in a random password, expecting it to give him entry. But all that came up was, "YOUR PASSWORD IS INCORRECT, PLEASE TRY AGAIN."

Fifteen minutes of frustrated guesses and David was whispering at him frantically, "Finish up! They'll be waking up in a minute and I don't want to taser them again, it could cause a heart attack! If you're not done in five minutes, we're leaving!"

Wes gave up and stared at the screen, staring blankly at the message.

"YOUR PASSWORD IS INCORRECT, PLEASE TRY AGAIN."

Of course! He was so stupid! It was right in front of him!

He quickly typed into the box: "I-N-C-O-R-R-E-C-T"

"Welcome, Richard Dorian, to SecureMail."

Now, he could faintly hear what sounded like a groan. He was frantic now, typing at top speed. He searched 'Kurt Hummel' in the Inbox, not sure what he was expecting to find.

A single email popped up. He skimmed it, and then opened the attached document.

David turned around to see Wes staring with a shocked expression on his face.

Well, he hadn't been expecting _that._

* * *

><p>"<em>Dear Richard,<em>

_I would be very happy if you could take care of this piece of business for me._

_Sincerely, Raven."_

David read it over and over, looking for hidden codes or deliberately misspelled words, translating it into different languages, but couldn't see any hidden codes in it. He and Wes were poring over the email and attached document that Wes had printed off at David's apartment in Everdeen, Ohio, a little town adjacent to Westerville. Wes looked over it too, but apart from a faint stirring of memory at the word 'Raven' he couldn't think of anything.

He flicked through the document. It started with the profile of a girl called Katrina Carr, who had gone missing ten years before. Then, there was a detailed profile of Kurt. There was a police report on human remains discovered in a forest in Pennsylvania.

But it was what followed that didn't make any sense.

There was a detailed profile on a nearby company called 'Global Autopsy Ltd' which carried out autopsies and DNA tests on human remains. There were details on its opening times, staff on duty on a certain date two weeks before, and a note at the bottom that said, "Bobby at The Guff will get you what you need."

"The Guff?" Wes and David chorused incredulously. The Guff was the force's nickname for the weapons and clothing warehouse, which all cops in Southern Ohio used. They'd nicknamed it The Guff because of Bobby Guffington who ran the place, who everyone called Guff.

That was it. "I don't get it. How does all this stuff link together?" Wes' expression was so focussed that his eyebrows had morphed together.

"I'm not sure, Unibrow. Did you see if the guy had replied?" Wes racked his brains. "Actually, I think he did but I didn't think to print off the reply. Sorry."

David rolled his eyes and sat at the laptop. "You don't remember the email provider he was using, do you?"

"Yeah…SecureMail or something like that."

David tapped in 'SecureMail', downloaded it and entered Dorian's details and password. He found the email and saw that, just two days before, Dorian had replied,

_Taken care of. Here's the report, managed to taser the guard so he didn't see anything. Surprisingly easy to fake things these days._

_Dorian_

He opened the attached document, read it, then read it twice again to make sure he'd got everything right. The document was two copies of the result of a DNA test on human remains two weeks earlier. He was starting to piece everything together.

The first copy was a test on the remains of a Katrina Carr. It revealed that she had been killed with a blunt implement. The second was identical to the first, it even had the same serial number, but the name had been painstakingly changed to 'Kurt Hummel'. It had been so skilfully done that it looked genuine.

Wes and David had found the truth.

Kurt Hummel was still alive, or at least hadn't been found dead yet. And, for some reason, someone nicknamed 'Raven' had coaxed Dorian into covering up a girl's murder. Another stirring of memory at that name on Wes' part, but not enough to remember anything specific.

So, if Kurt _was_ still alive, one main question remained:

Where the hell was he?

* * *

><p><strong>And that'll have to keep you for another 2 weeks, folks.<strong>

**Bye!**

**Karah/Biota x**


	6. Flashback

**Sorry for the wait, I currently have three fics who are always crying for attention and I'm focussing on my Hunger Games SYOT fic at the moment. Still, you guys deserve an update, so here's one :) This chapter is a flashback chapter, which basically explains a little more about the past of the characters, which will help you figure out a lot of things more easily.**

**Karah x**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Flashback<strong>

_The little boy sits in his garden, staring at the brightly coloured flowers with curious, clear grey eyes. The backyard is like a different world to him. A colourful world where the yelling can't pierce his ears and the slaps don't resonate through his skin. He trails his fingers through the dewy grass and smiles absent-mindedly._

_He wishes he could share his newfound world with somebody though. Since his mommy went quiet, he's been lonely. The man isn't nice to him like his mommy. He laughs at him and says he's a girl. He knows it's not true, girls wear pretty dresses and he feels silly in pretty dresses. Dungarees are so much better. He keeps hearing a word from the man, and resolves to ask mommy what 'gay' means._

_He jolts as he sees her. She looks funny, with brown hair like chocolate buttons and pretty eyes, with green and brown and bits of gold in them. The girl sees him and cocks her head curiously. Then she comes up to the fence and the boy's breath hitches in his throat. The man told him never to let anyone over the fence…but she can't be a burglar-man, can she?_

_It's too late now anyway, she's climbed over easily even with her short, bendy legs. She plops down next to him and holds a hand out. "Hello, I'm Kitty," she announces, and looks at him expectantly._

_The boy is dumbstruck that this girl is talking to him, after what the man would say-but he quickly recovers in fear that she'll walk away. "I-I'm Andrew. Andrew Kitsch," he replies, and nervously shakes her hand. This girl is what mommy calls 'forward'. It's good, but a little scary._

_Then he starts to giggle as he processes what she said. "Cat? Like kitty-cat? That's a funny name!" He giggles so infectiously that the girl eventually joins in. When they recover, she says, "It's actually Katrina Ellen Carr, but that name is too long, so people call me Kitty. But I'm not a kitty-cat," she says stubbornly. "I would have a tail if I was a kitty-cat."_

"_I'm five," The boy proclaims proudly. "I bet you're not five." She laughs. "No, I'm six!" She laughs again at his eyes widening in wonder. A six-year-old, talking to a lowly five-year-old! They continue to talk excitedly, and are perfectly happy until they get onto the topic of family._

"_Where's your mommy?" Andrew asks innocently. The change is immediate; her sunny gold-flecked eyes cloud over and she looks closed off. It's a while before she replies. "She's at home with my brother and sister."_

"_Does she know where you are?"_

"_She doesn't care."_

_Suddenly the gold-flecked eyes are full of sadness and spilling over with tears. She finds herself telling this new, strange boy with the curious face all the things she would never tell anyone else. About how she had loved her daddy until he suddenly took a suitcase, went on holiday and didn't come back. How her mommy loves Kitty's siblings: Ocean, her older sister who is very pretty, and Gayle, her younger brother who is a genius. How her mommy ignores Kitty whenever she speaks and Kitty's learnt not to try anymore._

_Andrew tells her the secrets he swore to keep too. About how his daddy died when he was a baby, and two years ago the man came. How he was so nice and brought him toy cars, but then turned nasty and started calling him names and hitting him. He tells Kitty about his mommy going all quiet and how he thinks the man might hurt her too. After a short while, they're both in tears._

_Only half an hour has passed, and little Andrew Kitsch and Katrina Carr are best friends, with all the friendship bracelets and pinky promises to seal it._

_It starts to get dark and Kitty says she has to go, and the boy is sad until his best friend promises to see him tomorrow, and then the next day too, since it's the holidays. Just as she slips out, he hears the thundering footsteps of the man._

"_What are you doing, little girly?" The deep voice booms nastily. "Looking at the flowers?" He picks one, a beautiful white bloom, and holds it out to Andrew. Andrew is about to take it when the man snatches it and tears it into tiny pieces. Tears sting the corners of the boy's eyes._

"_You're a big bully!" Andrew bravely yells, and runs back into the house. He rushes up to his bedroom, the mean laughter resounding in his ears._

* * *

><p>I stare with dead eyes at the faded and torn photograph. All other photographs of her and me are tainted, with my inability to genuinely smile since losing Kurt. But this is from when we were younger, and our identical beaming smiles light up the picture. We look similar; it's the features.<p>

She was the last person I was sure I loved since they took him away from me.

I clutch it to my chest, but no tears sting my eyes. It's been too long. Now there's only the dull ache, and it's been long enough to know that's never leaving me.

* * *

><p>She was working on the rope on her left wrist. She felt it; it was definitely loosening. But slowly, slowly now. She wasn't planning to antagonise the mentally unstable man. Not until the knife and the keys were safely clutched in her hands.<p>

Then she froze. The man who called himself Andrew was suddenly getting up and advancing towards her. What could it be for? She'd already had dinner. Oh, that. She'd just pretend she was asleep. She shut her eyes and slowed her breathing convincingly, keeping a chink of light visible through her slightly open left eye.

She heard his thoughts aloud. "Oh, she's sleepy." Giggling. "She'll never know if I kiss her in her sleep!" Suddenly the puffy lips were inches from her face and she couldn't help it. She twisted away from them instinctively and he jolted back in shock.

"You-you were pretending to be asleep, Kitty? So I wouldn't kiss you?" The hurt in his eyes morphed into a steely anger that sent icy pulses through her heart. Suddenly he's descending on her forcefully, slapping her, trying to kiss her. She frantically tried to fight him off.

Fuck, she thought. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me. I'm too young to die.

She thrashed around in complete desperation, before yelling one word in a terrified and desperate scream.

"**BLAINE!"**

That broke the spell. He stopped hitting her and obediently retreated to his spot on the ground where he slept, and instantly passed out. She stared at the ceiling. It was as if some kind of enchantment had been placed over him by that simple word. Strange.

But useful knowledge.

As she sank into sleep, she dreamed of a time in her childhood, not knowing that Blaine Anderson was thinking of the exact same scene.

* * *

><p>"<em>Tag! You're it!" The sunny little girl had jumped out of nowhere. Blaine laughed and started chasing her, purposely going slowly. With the five-year age gap, he could have caught her in an instant, but it was more fun hearing her screams of laughter as she ran away from him.<em>

_Finally, he sprinted up to her and lightly tapped her on the shoulder. "You're it," he teased. She sat on the grass and stuck out her bottom lip. "You're the worst big brother ever," she pouted. Blaine just laughed and ran off until she started chasing him again. _

_Suddenly, Blaine heard a childlike scream and saw his sister trip over a tree root and fall headfirst into the goldfish pond. Amusement quickly melted into horror-she couldn't swim. She'd drown!_

"_Bailey!" Blaine yelled, and dived in after her. She was floating, her gold-brown hair in a cloud behind her. She wasn't moving. He grabbed her and forced her out, and started pumping her chest like he'd seen his father do, once, when he was a lifeguard._

_Soon, Bailey was coughing up water and spluttering. After a minute of shock and regaining the ability to breathe, her gold-flecked hazel eyes opened, and her face cracked into a grin. "That's why you have to teach me to swim, Blainey!"_

"_No 'thank you' for saving your life, then?" Blaine teased, relieved beyond belief. God, she scared him sometimes. He was grateful she was only four and not in school yet. She'd probably burn it down by accident!_

"_Thank you, Blainey-for sitting there! Tag!" Bailey giggled and ran away on her little legs. Blaine rolled his eyes. She was the bane of his life sometimes._

_And he wouldn't have it any other way._

* * *

><p><strong>Ooh! So many puzzle pieces! Two girls of similar age with the same gold-flecked eyes. Blaine has a kidnapped sister called Bailey who's being held by a man named Andrew with misty grey eyes. A young boy with clear grey eyes, also curiously called Andrew, met a girl similar in appearance to Bailey called Kitty. And the man called Andrew calls Bailey Kitty and appears to have lost his mind.<strong>

**Intriguing…**

**Expect an update at some point soon. **

**Karah x**


	7. Cell

**Hello, Freefall readers! I'm so sorry I've been kinda hibernating over the past couple months :( I've been busy with NaNoWriMo (look it up if you don't know, it's awesome) over November. So, I think you deserve a chapter! Of course, you've probably all since left…still, worth a shot :)**

**So, y'know how Kurt's dead? Yeah…read this chapter.**

**Kara x**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: Cell<strong>

_It's been far too long since I saw any kind of colour._

I always did love colour. Fashion's dead without it, but the last fashion trends I was aware of were from…how many years ago? It's difficult to remember, days are barely distinguishable here. Daytime is dark with the harshly artificial lights, and night is dark, with that same harshly artificial light that somehow I can still sleep in-not that I have any choice.

Looking around this tiny little cell that's been my home since so many days and nights and dreaming ago…it's gray. Gray walls, gray ceiling, gray _me _in these grubby clothes I've been wearing since a week past, and will be wearing for a week more, until _he _decides to give me new ones.

_To think, when I lived, I used to change my clothes at least once a day._

The laugh is humourless, and it sounds vaguely like screaming.

But the gray. Gray, gray, everywhere. Even the light's turned a vicious shade of migraine-inducing gray. If only he'd give me paint…it's been so long since I tried interior decorating.

What was there before this? Can't…remember…everything's difficult to hold onto, so usually I stop trying. It's painful to think of hour-long skin routines and smiles and sunlight and walls that were red instead of gray. Food that wasn't bland and clothes that weren't bland and _life_ that was halfway worth living.

I haven't quite stooped so low as to try and end it all just yet. I would never forgive myself. It would kill my family, and it hurts to just _think _of my family, let alone them crying, in pain. And Blaine…

_Blaine._

The jolt of pain is so overwhelming that knife-like tears burn in my eyes. But I don't want to forget, because forgetting him is forgetting happiness.

_Blaine. Blaine. Blaine._

Tears pooling on the ground, gray crystal puddle reflecting the sharp, gray lights from outside this room. Wait, no, bars, metal bars everywhere…_cell, that's the word._

I do still have these words, these memories, from when I was alive. But I have to use past tense, because I'm not alive here, I'm not Kurt Hummel. I'm in a sort of stasis, waiting either to die off or for someone to break me out of here, even though that's never going to happen.

I can't tell the difference between sleeping and waking anymore; it's all the same. I don't even have dreams-that would imply that I could remember what creativity, colour, happiness, _imagination _meant.

_Click. Click. Click._

The familiar footsteps of the man who put me down here, who won't let me out, who has the massive gun holstered in his belt that doesn't need to go _tick, tick, tick, _before it goes _boom, _and Kurt Hummel is done, for real this time.

And yet, I don't hate him. I hated him for three long years, even more before that, and after a while, you start to realise that it doesn't affect him one bit-it just slowly drains all the colour from your life. But of course, by the time I realised that, it was too late.

Of course, I'd kill him in a second if I had a gun in my hand, but that's more for her, really. Maybe I should still hate him, but you become disassociated from any type of emotion when you're locked in a box with no key, for what seems like forever, every. Single. Second.

(He tried to put a clock in here once, but after five minutes I smashed it. It was just too much.)

_To think, Dad was right. If I hadn't played with dynamite, tried to rescue her when she's long since beyond rescuing, I would still be Kurt Hummel, and not this pale-skinned, dead-eyed, gray-hearted stranger that I seem to control._

_I got so close…and now I'm closer than I ever thought I would be, but not in the way I would've ever imagined._

He reaches the door, and I look at his face absent-mindedly, but it's shrouded by a hood, as usual. Once, he forgot, and he doesn't forget. I paid for that time, with a lot of sedatives that felt like what dying must feel like, and the vision of his face is blurred beyond recognition now, but I still know.

I know who he is, and that's what keeps me from hating him completely, destroying myself with it. He thinks I only know his name…but a name's a name, and he has many. I know more than one.

He stops outside the cell, opens the door slightly (I tried overpowering him once and escaping; he stabbed me in the stomach with a syringe and I didn't wake up for three days) and gently places a bowl of chicken soup on the floor.

_It's always chicken soup. Just another one of the ways he tries to drive me insane. _

Needless to say, I still eat it. It's eat chicken soup for the rest of my life, or die. Sometimes I wonder how he gets so much-someone, somewhere, must get suspicious when a reclusive man who lives alone orders 3000 cartons of chicken soup.

Wishful thinking, Kurt.

"Thanks, Roy," I say half-heartedly, scarfing down the soup in an _extremely _unattractive way _(but it's Kurt Hummel who's concerned about that, and you haven't done his skin routine in years, so you can't be him, right?)_ and he doesn't turn around. He strides down the dark corridor outside, past all the other empty cells, and mutters something to himself, then laughs hysterically, the laughter of a madman echoing through me, as if a thousand men were laughing, not just one.

Laughing. Something I'll probably never be able to do again, even if I do get out of here.

When he's out of sight, I reach into my frayed pocket and empty it out, seeing what I've left in there. A torn-up photograph and a mostly undamaged, small, photograph.

The torn-up one's of him, Blaine. I had it on me when I came in here and he never bothered to take it away-figured it would eventually drive me mad, probably. I tore it up a couple of years ago, a fit of rage when I was thinking of him having moved on, finding another man, holding hands with another man, _kissing _and _touching _and _loving _another man, promising himself to him forever, being happy without me, cheating on me over and over again…

Then I realised, I shouldn't care. Blaine is happy with another man. I'm dead. That's all there is and ever will be, so there's no use getting angry. He can't cheat on a dead man. _He doesn't love you any more, Kurt, and you need to get over it._

_Of course, you won't, but you can try._

I never bothered trying to piece the photo back together-his face is too vivid in my mind to ever go away, returning through every rare dream and nightmare, although his name sometimes slips. Blaine, that's it. Blaine Everett.

But the other photo…it's of her. The one I tried to save, when there was no saving her; she's long gone and never coming back. Memories start flooding across my vision, just like that beautiful reminiscing day with _Blaine _– painful – the day before – painful – everything – painful.

Everyone's stopped looking for Kurt Hummel.

Except me, and I still haven't found him.

* * *

><p><em>A baby with porcelain skin and huge blue eyes gurgles curiously up at his mother, who smiles fondly at him and tickles his chin absent-mindedly before sitting down for a second, tracing the stretch marks on her newly-flattened stomach, closing her eyes to the world.<em>

_Being a new mother is tiring, she thinks, but she wouldn't swap it for the world._

_Knock._

_Oh, for god's sake, who's knocking at ten o'clock on a Friday night? She groans, shakily standing up, fatigued, quieting the grizzling little baby. Maybe it's Burt, on an early visit home, she wonders, and starts going towards the door._

_The baby's not happy. His grizzling gets worse._

_A step towards the hallway._

_Now he's starting to cry, little hiccupy sobs. She contemplates just ignoring it, but if it's Burt, there's no way she could leave him out in the rain. _

_Another step, they seem to go so slowly._

_He lets out a heart-wrenching wail, and she can't think why. She's already fed him, bathed him, winded him…so she walks back to him and rubs his back. "Shush, Kurt," she whispers, but he's already stopped, eyes big and round as he looks up at her. _

_So she starts walking back towards the door, and he starts crying again, but she decides, she'll find out why later._

_Key enters the lock._

_A long, prolonged wail that tugs at her heartstrings._

_Turn the key._

_A series of high-pitched cries that sound almost like begging._

_Open the door…_

_There's no time for her to react, she just stands there, motionless, eyes big and round as the baby's but in fear instead of wonder, and then she's falling, and the whole neighbourhood hears the gunshot._

_Boom._

_Every house in the neighbourhood goes completely silent, except for Number 241, where a little baby with round blue eyes is screaming._

_He tried to warn her._

_He could see the man outside, through the window..._

_With his shiny metal gun._

_Mommy? _

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for all the angst! This is an extremely angsty story, but there will be happy bits, especially towards the end :) Now excuse me while I go cry.<strong>

**Kara x**


	8. Notice

Hi guys! I just wanted to give all my awesome readers a heads-up; I have exams. The biggest ones I've ever had, and I'm crapping myself. In the great scheme of things they're not massive, but they're sucking up every second of my spare time, which equals no writing for me until at least the 12th January. Then, I will make an effort to update as many of my stories as possible-my two Hunger Games SYOTs, my crackfic, Freefall and The Blood Diaries. A lot of people have PMed me asking me please not to quit writing and it's really touching, thank you all. Thank you everyone who has decided to read my stories, review them, or just walk away with a smile on their face. You're what keep me writing and you're what will bring me right back to the keyboard after my exams. I hope you all had a great Christmas. Kara x 


	9. Blackmail

**Yay for update!**

**So, Kurt's alive. That doesn't mean the angst is over though…far from it. But I promise you will not be tortured forever!**

**This chapter introduces alternate-world Burt. He's the chief of police and is about to get an unwanted phone call…but enough of the synopsis, let's get on with the chapter!**

**Kara x**

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><p><em>She always said I'd make a good policeman; ironic that her case would end up being the only one I'd ever have to put in the 'unsolved' pile. <em>

Y'know, they told me I'd get over it? I'm starting to think they lied, since it's been…a long time. I don't count the years anymore. What's the point of it? I haven't celebrated a birthday in…a long time.

Kurt's the last piece of her I have left, and there's a good chance that I'll never see that piece again either. To be honest, I don't know if he's still alive. Why should I trust _him? _The bastard who fucked up my life. Every sodding piece of it.

The phone rings. My heart sinks.

"Yes?"

_(I gave up the formalities a long time ago. No use, no use.)_

"Ah, my good friend Burt Christopher Hummel."

_Fuck._

"What do you want?" I ask wearily. I used to be scared, but he couldn't do much else, to be honest. Some days, I almost wish he'd walk in here with a gun. It would make things a lot simpler. I've always been a straight-up guy; I don't do well with mind games.

"Now, now, that's no way to greet a friend, is it?" His tone is jovial and overly casual, that can't be good. "But since you're asking, I do have a teensy, tiny favour in mind."

"Okay." Nothing else I can do but agree.

"Search your case files for Katia Renn, ID number 623498," he snaps, tone suddenly icy and corporate. I know better than to take my time, so I hurriedly scramble through the files and find the right one. I look at the front. A girl; nineteen or so, with braces on her front teeth and a sweet smile that made her look all too young. We'd just gotten in the autopsy results; murder, a blunt implement to the head.

"A hammer to the head? Gee, I thought you were classier than that," I quip, knowing that he likely killed the girl and wants it covered up, like all the other times. I'm not scared of him any more, and he knows; he laughs, briefly, meaninglessly.

"You're a funny guy, Burt. A funny, _childless _guy if you don't follow my orders. Search her ID number in the system. Using the exact software I ordered you to install in the computer, change the 4 in her ID number to a 5, her name from Katia Renn to Annie Kendall, and replace the photo with the one currently being faxed to you by scanning it in."

As if on cue, the fax machine bleeps.

_No…I can't change her file; she's so young, her family don't deserve the grief of thinking her murder was never solved…but if there's even a hope that Kurt's still alive, there's no way I'm going to sacrifice it."_

"Uh…the ID number isn't appearing in the system…" I mumble unconvincingly, trying to stall; maybe I can get him to stall long enough to trace the call.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. You really are a funny guy, Burt. You have ten minutes. And by the way, this is a disposable mobile phone, so there's no use in tracing it," he says, laughter in his voice, and hangs up the phone.

_Bastard._

I gloomily upload the software to start forging Katia's document, trying not to picture her relatives' faces, and glance at the picture of Kurt on my desk. He was eleven at the time, face screwed up because he didn't want me to take the picture; "My hair isn't styled right and this moisturiser makes my skin look pasty!"

The memories can make you smile as well as cry; though I still tell people who enquire that he's a friend's son, or myself as a child. It's much easier to explain, and sometimes lies can be a comfort if they shield you, just for a second, from the truth.

_Kurt, if one day I can see you again, it almost seems like this is all worth it._

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><p>All those years had paid off. When she tugged on the rope, she could lift her wrist a full five inches off the table before it was strangled and thrown back by the tether. Occasionally she would hear a slight <em>crack <em>that she knew was the knot slowly breaking open.

Two weeks. Two weeks and she would be free, she calculated, at this speed of progress. A smile lit up her face. _Free. _The word tasted like sunshine and summer breeze.

She heard his gentle snores, and started slowly working on the rope. She was tired, but she could sleep when she was _free. _She directed her eyes to the low, cracked ceiling and what was beyond, and whispered almost imperceptibly,

"_I'm coming, Blaine."_

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><p><strong>The chapters will start getting longer soon. Keep reading and reviewing!<strong>

**Kara x**


	10. Regrets

**This is Chapter 8, and I plan for this to go up to 14 chapters. So not too much longer until you see what happens to Klaine...**

**However, no sign of Blaine or Kurt in this chapter. No, this character will likely not be familiar to you; but he plays a key part, all the same.**

**Welcome, readers, to Ohio State Penitentiary.**

**Kara xxx**

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><p><strong>Chapter 8: Regrets<strong>

The man lies on a bare hospital bed, sheets dyed with coppery stains, the salty stench of blood acridly familiar to Dr. Manning. He knows it well; far too well.

A single stab wound to the abdomen, inflicted by a drugged-up inmate (he doesn't take a second to wonder where he got the drugs; this is where the life sentencers reside, and anything goes if you've made the right alliances) that's punctured his stomach, spleen and ruptured his liver. It didn't take Manning a second to know, he's a dead man. From the glazed look in his eyes, he figures this guy probably knows it too. An hour at most, far too little time to get him airlifted to a decent hospital with facilities better than an aspirin bottle and a scalpel for emergency amputations.

The sad thing, he thinks bitterly, is that it sounds like he's exaggerating, when he really isn't. This place is a dump for the hopeless, and that doesn't apply just to the inmates. They built shiny Columbus Federal Prison a couple years ago, with decent medical care and councillors and all that crap, so Ohio State's just been left to rot in the ashes. Just like him; board-certified doctor with a promising career, now works twelve-hour shifts for crappy money, and drinks himself to sleep.

His shift ended hours ago, and though he doesn't have anything keeping him here, he can't help but be slightly intrigued by this patient. Although at first glance, he's not sure why. Physically imposing like most of the others; many a time with a mean glint in his eye and liquor on his breath.

But all the bravado seems to have been stripped away, huddled on soiled sheets, breaths rasping and shallow, eyes averted from the gaping, unsterile wound that's sliced his muscles apart easier than butter. His eyes are...interesting. Normally inmates who've succumbed to this fate (and it's by no means rare) are resigned, sometimes angry, sometimes emotionless or off their heads, occasionally remorseful. Yet between the glassy-eyed fear prevalent on his face, Dr. Manning's sure that somewhere in there, he can see flickers of...not anger, or even particular remorse, but _vindication._

The kind that only ever appears in the eyes of the innocent, at least in part.

Resigned to that his curiosity is going to keep him from a quiet evening in with a bottle of whisky and _Fawlty Towers _reruns, the aging doctor sits uncomfortably next to the wild-eyed prisoner and chews his bottom lip awkwardly, wondering why he's picked _this _guy to show any kind of interest in. He's had plenty of better patients...young, crying kids who made that one fatal mistake; guys screaming in remorse, not silent like this one.

"What did you do?"

The words are out of the doctor's mouth before he can stop himself. He inwardly yells at himself for breaking the don't-communicate-with-patients-needlessly rule, but it's too late, the guy's already painfully shifted himself and is _looking _at him.

"Why d'ya want to know?"

Voice guarded, like everyone else in here. Getting close to people means getting hurt. The doctors here know that all too well; become attached to a bright-eyed kid with a sob story who should never have been in here, next you know you've got him in the infirmary, or a morgue somewhere, or getting transferred, or whatever else, and it hurts like hell.

"Just curious."

He sighs and rests his head back on the yellowing, thin pillowcase, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead and threatening to run into his eyes.

"Married a girl up in Michigan, she had a kid in tow. I'd been having one too many in the bars for years, and something about the kid..." he squeezed his eyes shut in pain, part from the wound, part from memories; "I started picking on 'im. Five, he was, when I started, I think. Stupid little girly kid, played with Barbies. What the hell kind of boy plays with Barbies? Anyway, I'd just joke around at first, but it got a bit out o' hand, y'know...maybe he reminded me of when I was a kid? My dad always used to say I was a total fairy up 'till I got my act together when I hit my teens. But it just all spirals and the kid doesn't seem to react. I always knew the little git was gay, but he'd just go out of his way to defy me...brought a girl home; figured he was winding me up, so I snapped." He looks down, as if ashamed. "He got beat up pretty bad, but I'm not really sure, I'd had a few whiskies. Next thing I knew I was dumped in some jail up there. Got in a fight, and the feds kicked my ass down here. Funny enough, apparently she's livin' in the Buckeye state too. Not that I'll ever get a chance to be sure." Laughs bitterly, gestures to wound on stomach, clams up again.

You show no emotion. Compared to other stories you've heard, ones that make your skin crawl and blood coagulate, this is nothing. In fact, it's almost _too _'nothing.' He must be lying. That wouldn't get you life. In this state, it'd probably get you ten years max.

"What else?" Voice steely, he bends his head slightly and barks a laugh.

"You're not dumb, are ya? Well, they said I whacked his girlfriend too. Whacked her head, against a radiator. Injury to 'er brain stem. Died a couple days later. I don't remember a thing; it's weird, I'd never hit a girl normally. Fecking whisky got me life."

The crude heart monitor starts beeping erratically, and a few hysterical tears escape his eyes. "Maybe the kid wasn't gay after all, I just always had to pick on 'im, keep picking 'till he snapped. I don't even know why! Just my ol' dad kept snipin' at me, always...saying I was a fairy, I'd never be good enough; maybe I took that out on the little sucker. I don't even know. Why don't I remember killing that girl of his? I don't remember much, but they say I took the radiator off its hinges. I'd remember that, right?" He looks at the doctor helplessly as his heart rate spirals out of control, and blood starts leaking furiously onto the sheets again, despite you applying another pillow as a crude compress.

You don't know why you even care that he's dying.

But you do.

"What's your name?" You pant, with the exertion of keeping the pillow tightly compressed against his muscles. "I need to...contact any relatives, tell them about...this."

Bullshit, he mutters to himself. He just needs to know this man's name, because he doubts anyone else will, or should.

"Tyrone," he gasps, with the suspected collapsed lung caused from a second, smaller stab wound. "Hey, could ya contact the kid for me? 'E probably won't care...I don't even know where he is; he'll be in 'is twenties now. But I think telling 'im...might put 'is mind at rest, a bit."

"Okay," the doctor says, almost given up. "What's his name?"

"A-andrew...Powell, I think."

The monitor's beep weakens, and the doctor looks out helplessly through the window, into the evening sky, for the miracle he knows won't come.

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><p><strong>Yay, prison mega-angst! :D <strong>

**Much more Kurt and Blaine next chapter, and a few surprises. I promise, the angst will eventually end (kinda) and the romance will return. Just wait, my pretties!**

**Kara xxx**


	11. Escapade

**Hiya my amazing readers! :D**

**I have recently been a victim of the Story Deletion Monster, so have been recovering from that. But I can't wait to reach the end of Freefall (I've had it conceived for a looong time) so here be update!**

**Kara x**

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><p><strong>Chapter 9: Escapades<strong>

He staggers into the kitchen, ripping open the cupboard door and cursing under his breath. The whisky bottles are all empty, the store will be closed, and he can still see and remember his own name. _Fuck._

"I'm getting immune to this stuff," he wonders aloud, sending a bottle crashing to the ground, unsure whether it was an accident or frustration. A shard lacerates his foot, but the pain is insignificant. It's nothing compared to the crushing disappointment.

Out of the corner of his mind, he's been hoping for weeks that he'll get smashed enough that he drinks the rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet without thinking. Boom. Pass out, don't wake up. See Kurt again.

Kurt. _That's _his name.

"I can't feel him anymore."

He doesn't know who he's talking to, but it feels..._comforting_, so he slumps into a split vinyl chair and keeps talking, words only slurring into each other slightly. "I could always _feel _him, y'know? A sort of constant sensation of him looking over my shoulder, about to kiss me or playfully push me over or comment disdainfully on my clothes. It sort of hurt when I turned around, but at least I still had that feeling. Made me happy sometimes, even just for a second or two. But it's gone."

Normally he'd throw something at the wall now, watch as it cracked into pretty pieces or reverberated and smacked him in the face. Even better if it belonged to Kurt; he'd feel terrible in the morning, but in the night-time it just felt so _good _to see a vase fissure and break, suffering for everything he's going through, that Kurt had been through. Past tense.

Because as far as Blaine is concerned, Kurt is dead. He can't feel his presence anymore, and he's never been superstitious or spiritual or any of that crap but it's almost too painful to believe in Kurt's safety anymore.

Realising he's just about sober enough to climb the stairs, he clutches onto the banister and levers himself up the staircase. Sleep. Sleep, he thinks, and maybe dreams will give you some respite, like the psych guys said when you bothered to listen to them.

He's just about to sink into old, unchanged bedsheets when he spots the open window by Kurt's side of the bed-the one he always kept open because he couldn't sleep when it was too hot, and then he'd wake up at 3am because of the draught and steal Blaine's blanket and Blaine wouldn't even care-and something, somewhere, snaps.

Next thing he knows, he's pulling his shaking legs onto the ledge, clutching onto the window frame, and staring, curious, terrified, exhilarated at the ground below.

He's thought about this moment a lot before.

But now, there's no-one left to stop him.

Right?

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><p><em>I'm standing on a windowsill, staring at the skyline. One step, Blaine. That's all you need to take. Your life's already over, so why not take that step?<em>

_The face of the man I love flickers across my vision. He's dead, my fault. I'm so sorry. Everyone who I've hurt, I'm so sorry. Sorry. Such a meaningless word. It didn't save my life, or the lives of anyone I as good as killed. _

_Hell beckons to me, in the form of blood-red cars sleeping soundly in the road below. Waiting to catch me and rip me apart at the same time._

_Can I do it?_

_I'm about to take that step, prove everyone wrong (I'm **not **strong enough, I've **not **gotten over it, and I am **alone**) when the phone rings._

_I'm tempted to smash it, but I stop dead in my tracks when I see the caller's name._

_A ghost from my shattered past. _

_What...is this?_

_I take a shaking hand off the windowframe, never taking my eyes away from the caller ID. It nearly slips from my fingers, but I catch it, wondering whether I'll be able to speak._

"_Blaine?"_

_A lump instantly forms in my throat. They must have recorded her voice._

"_...Bailey?"_

_Bailey-or more likely her kidnapper-doesn't speak for hours. Or maybe a split second. I don't care about time any more, just the streets below and the people in the cars beeping because they can see me and think they can somehow make me stay here, and the pain growing in my shoulders from crouching here, and dammit it would be so easy to just **let go **_

_Then, a single word._

"_Run."_

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><p>Instantly, he pushes off from the ledge, launching himself through the air, exhaling almost in relief for the second or two until the impact, and the faint gasps from the people on the road.<p>

Scrambling up from the bed he's launched himself back onto, he carelessly shoves on shoes and hurtle through the doors out of the house, because that was the _code _and she's _alive _and _hope _is like looking at the sun after years underground, warm, so bright it's painful.

"Bailey? Bailey!" He pants, ripping open the car door and fiddling desperately with the ignition. It was the code, when they were kids; Bailey had watched an abduction movie at a sleepover with her friends, then had run home the next day and instantly made Blaine agree to make a code with her; if either of them were abducted and escaped. A single call, a pause of thirteen seconds, and then start speaking. Thirteen seconds exactly.

He _can't believe _she still remembers.

"Blaine." Her voice is raspy like she's just escaped from a chokehold, and he hears a stifled sob. "It's me."

It's her. It's _actually her _and he thought she was _dead _and _his sister's alive _and there are so many questions his head feels like it's going to implode.

"Bailey! Where are you? Why am I running? Where have you been? _Who took you?_"

_How can I kill the bastard?_

"I-I'm in a forest about 20km from Pennsylvania. It's called Huntingdon Forest, there's a campsite a couple kilometres from here that I'm heading for. At least, that's what he told me. Andrew. Andrew Powell, that kid from your school. It was him. Blaine, he's gone mental and he's coming to kill you and his eyes are all misty and and and..." Her voice is hysterical and Blaine's mind is spinning.

_No. Not him. Not possible._

"It's okay," he somehow says soothingly, knowing full well it isn't. "I'm coming for you now." He screeches into fifth gear, ignoring the honks as he cuts someone off. Nothing short of a police chase is going to stop this car.

"NO! Blaine, don't! You don't understand-"

"I can't just leave you there! He'll come back for you! I can take care of myself, Bailey."

"Blaine! HE LET ME GO!"

The impact of her words, as well as the impact of a speedbump, knock him back in his seat.

"W-what?"

"I managed to loosen one of my ropes, and when he saw he went mental and said that he never wanted to see me again, I'd broken his heart and started babbling and basically he's crazy and he said everything was your fault because you broke him first and he's coming for you, not me. You have to run, Blaine! I...have people I can call," she finishes evasively, and he can't reply, the words are spinning around his head and tightening around his neck, choking him.

_I...broke...him? He's coming for me?_

It's strange for him that fear sets in. Of all the emotions that it could've been-confusion, anger, relief, happiness at Bailey having escaped, trepidation-he always comes back to that one, almost comforting staple. Fear. But it's rarely fear for his own life.

"Okay, Bailey, I'll trust you," he finally says, although everything in his body is screaming at him to change his mind. "Be careful. I love you," is all he can think to say.

"I love you, Blaine. I'm sorry. I'll explain everything when I see you again." The phone abruptly cuts off, and he throws it frustratedly into the passenger seat.

Everything just gets more and more confusing, he thinks as he speeds down the motorway, hoping that he hasn't just made a huge mistake.

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><p><em>Kurt Hummel twines his sleeve around his fingers, threading the frayed threads through the slats between them. Sometimes he imagines it's Blaine's hair, or the equally frayed threads of Finn or Burt's jumpers, or particularly thick threads masquerade as electrical cables running from a car. Sometimes he just does it to avoid doing anything else. Anything that could set <strong>him<strong> off. _

_He's like a walking time-bomb with a raven engraved on its back._

_Just as he thinks it, his ghostly face comes into view, and he instinctively drops the threads as if **he** might disapprove. Roy's eyes aren't glazed. Crap. When he's been drinking his mind games are easier to deal with. When he's sober, it isn't uncommon for him to put some kind of drug in Kurt's food and spend hours convincing him it's going to kill him slowly, then after hours of vomiting and terror, telling him laughingly that it's only a placebo._

_Hands shake at the memories of other 'pranks' and 'jokes' as he traces a few faint bruises and scars on his arms. There aren't many, but every one reminds him of something. Physical pain isn't his thing, though. Normally he treats him fine; food, shelter, blankets, bare minimum. Fucking with his mind...that's what Roy loves. Breaking him, or at least thinking he has._

_Roy advances to his shallow, bare little cage, and opens the gate. Kurt's eyes widen. Normally all he does is collect the chicken soup bowl (it's **always **chicken soup) after Kurt slots it through the bars, and gives him a motheaten blanket to sleep on when it's cold, usually. When the gate opens, it means trouble. Ohgodohgod what did I do...he thinks desperately, and he notices his fingers have started frantically twining through the threads again, a force of habit._

"_Hi, Roy, what's happening? Did I do something wrong?"  
><em>

_No words from him, just something glinting under the faint skylight. For a second Kurt freezes at the thought of a knife, and then notices the slender needle attached to a syringe full of familiar liquid._

_Green liquid._

_Sedative._

"_Well, that's déjà vu," he says dreamily, staring blankly into space even before the needle enters his vein, because he doesn't care, and wherever he's going, it's got to be better than here._

_He doesn't like to think of the alternative._

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><p><strong>Five chapters to go! I can't wait for the wild sex to begin...oh of course this is a T fic! Darn. Okay, makeout session then. Provided they both survive the next few chapters...*shifty grin*<strong>

**Kara x**


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